


Hand-Picked

by Jenny Lynne (jenny_lynne)



Series: Redemption Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aliases, Alternate Universe, Gen, Hooker Jared, Prostitution, Sex Club, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_lynne/pseuds/Jenny%20Lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his madam unexpectedly sends Sam Wesson to an engagement with a client willing to pay twice his usual fee, every instinct that's kept him safe for the last 8 years tells him to run.  Little does he know, he's been hand-picked for a night with Dean Smith that might change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand-Picked

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of Jared/Amanda.  
> CFNM = "clothed female naked male"
> 
> Comments = Love

He swished the blue liquid around in his mouth through three mental verses of _Jeopardy_ before spitting it into the rusty, chipped sink hanging precariously on the wall. He leaned down to splash cold water on his face, then ran wet fingers through his sex-messed chestnut tresses. He used to keep his hair long to annoy his asshole step-father. Now there were days he wished he could just take some electric clippers to his head.

“Crap, I think I need a tetanus or a rabies shot!” Ryder yelled from the hall. “Why do I always get the biters?!”

“I doubt those dentures did any permanent damage!” BJ replied as he passed the bathroom. Laughter and Ryder’s grumbling rumbled through the club’s backrooms.

He slowly shook his head. After a private party night, he never felt up to fraternizing with anyone, especially his co-workers. He preferred to take some quiet time to himself. Most of the time, he couldn’t wait to get back to his hole-in-the-wall room in the boarding house, drown himself in a long, hot shower to rinse away the sins of the night, and curl up with Nora, Harry, Ella, and Miles.

Sighing, he finally faced his shattered, tired reflection in the cracked mirror. A couple of hickies in odd places, bruises on his hips, and a few scratches here and there. Nothing that couldn’t be covered with some makeup for tonight’s show.  The middle-aged divorcees were always worse than the twenty-something bridesmaids. At least the CFNM parties usually left him with less physical damage than Amanda’s extremely private theme parties. The last one of those left him with three bruised ribs, unable to sit for two days, and a lasting dislike of Fruit Loops.

He buttoned up his ragged, faded Levis the rest of the way and fumbled with the large pewter belt buckle without looking down once.

The bathroom door slammed open. He didn’t even have enough energy to jump at the sound. The strong fake floral scent of perfume mixed with a cloud of menthol smoke quickly filled the tiny room.

“Don’t worry Amanda,” he sighed. “I’ll get the room ready before I cut out.”

“Skip the room today.”

Reaching for his t-shirt sitting folded on the back of the toilet, he turned toward the overdressed blond with the cigarette dangling from a manicured hand. He tried to hide his distrust in a simple querying expression. “Skip the room?”

Her eyes unabashedly drifted over his well-defined torso as she took a long drag from her cigarette. She nodded. “Yeah. You have to get home and rest up. Busy night tonight.”

He pulled his shirt over his head, then cocked his head. “Look, Manda, I’m tired. I don’t feel like playing games. If you have something to tell me, do it. If you want me to do something, tell me, so I can get it over with. Otherwise, get out, so I can finish up and cut out.” He suppressed a yawn as well as the stomach-kneading anxiety that signaled she was up to something.

She huffed and shook her head. Smiling smugly, she sauntered up to him. “No show for you tonight. You’ve got a command performance elsewhere.” She patted his cheek.

Closing his eyes, he couldn’t help the chill that ran down his spin. She only got that excited when big money was involved, and it never turned out good for him. Opening his eyes, he folded his arms across his chest and tried to look nonchalant. “Command performance?”

“Are you just gonna keep repeating everything I say?”

He shrugged.

She took another hit off the cigarette. “Your presence has been requested for an all-night engagement.   Apparently you caught the attention of some major money bags. Whoever it is isn’t very trusting. They didn’t even contact us themselves, sent some sort of assistant to make the arrangements.” She rolled her eyes.

He frowned a little. Amanda sounded upset, but he knew she probably nearly came in her black lace panties just thinking about the money. However, he had to give the client credit for recognizing Man Candy was far from discreet, especially the backrooms, especially when the rich and powerful were involved. Amanda had to protect her investment of course.

“Now, I know this is not our usual M.O., but they’re paying a shitload to get you all to their lonesome. They’re covering your regular stage and afterhours earnings plus tips, and, if you’re a good boy – and you will be a very good boy, Sammy.” She pat him on the cheek again, then slid her hand down his bicep to his elbow and dropped it to his hip, before stroking his soft cock through his jeans. It was the least sexy thing to happen to him all night. “—we’ll get twice what you would have made after hours. If that happens, I’ll let you keep half. So I recommend you be a very, very good boy tonight.” She squeezed his cock lightly. It didn’t even twitch with interest in the friction. Really, after last night, it was all frictioned out. “Be whoever and do whatever, however, whenever.”

“Yeah. Okay. Got it.” He didn’t move away from her touch. He’d trained himself a long time ago to just allow anyone to touch him anywhere without reacting. He could make himself react, but he knew she wasn’t interested right now. She was more direct when she had an itch to scratch, and he’d shared her bed or momentarily scratched the itch enough times to recognize the signs. So he waited her out.

“Good,” she smiled. She dropped her hand. Stepping back, she took a drag of the cigarette. “Finish cleaning up and get out of here. Your wardrobe will be sent over around six. A limo will collect you promptly at 8p.m. and I expect to hear from you first thing in the A.M.”

 

***

 

The four-star hotel suite door opened to reveal an attractive woman in a fitted navy pinstripe pantsuit. Her honey-brown hair curled around her neck.   She appeared flawless, but years of experience had taught him looks were deceiving more often than not. As her eyes finished their appraisal of his cleaned up appearance, her smile held more smugness than welcoming invitation, which actually eased his nerves somewhat. That was familiar territory.

She tipped her head further into the room. “Please, come in.”

Her posh British accent surprised him. It wasn’t something you often heard in Scottsdale. He’d picked Scottsdale due to its distance from the center of the universe so this variation was just another thing that set his Spidey sense a-skitter.

He resisted the urge to glance each way in the silent hall before stepping into the room. Instead, giving her one of his patented, dimpled smiles he knew could make women and certain men go weak-kneed, he stepped into the suite’s foyer, pausing a hair’s breadth in front of her.

She cleared her throat, but her expression looked more than amused. “Your host is running a little late. I was asked to greet you.”

“Oh. Uh-“ He ducked his head as he stepped away, backing into the suite. His chestnut bangs hid his eyes as he felt the blush creep across his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I thought-“

She shrugged as she allowed the door to close behind her. “No harm done.”  She gestured for him to head into the living room area. It wasn’t a penthouse, but the room itself was twice as big as his room at the boarding house.  

He led the way.

“The suit fits well.” She sounded pleased with herself.

He nodded as his fingers flexed in and out. “So…you must be the assistant?”

She headed to the built-in bar. “Call me ‘Bela’,” she said in a way that suggested she was as much a ‘Bela’ as he was a ‘Sam’. “Would you like a drink? Scotch, Whiskey, Gin, anything?”

He could see the finest selection of liquors on the shelves – Remy Martin, Johnny Walker Black, Grey Goose, Gordon’s, Lucid…All very tempting ways to self-medicate the evening away. Also all very good ways to be vulnerable. No one knew he was there but the client’s people and there had been a lot of promised money used to lure him there. The paranoia that had almost kept him from coming kept him from pre-numbing himself for whatever strangeness the evening had in mind.

“Tonic and lime, please?”

She nodded. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner for you.” She looked over her shoulder as she unscrewed the top of the tonic water. “If you’ve developed a sudden case of vegetarianism, I should call down to the kitchen.” Again, her pink lips curled upward as if she knew something he didn’t. Her green eyes were alight with mischief.

“Ah, no. Whatever you ordered is fine,” he said softly. “I wasn’t expecting dinner actually.”

She shrugged again as she sauntered over with his drink. “I only make the arrangements I’m assigned.”

Nodding his thanks as he took the drink, he frowned at her choice of words. In fact, everything she’d said since he’d arrived seemed to have been carefully chosen, just like the evasive limo driver who’d brought him here. “So. Who is this host?”

She shook her head as she began busying herself pouring another drink – a whiskey sour by the looks of it. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while you wait? Should only be a little longer.”

He sniffed the drink as surreptitiously as possible before he took a sip and wandered over to the sofa which was covered in the softest leather he had ever seen. He itched to remove the suit jacket and actually be comfortable like she suggested, but he remembered Amanda’s instructions – be whoever and do whatever. That meant he needed to play a role. He just didn’t know exactly what role he was supposed to be playing, and that set him on edge. All he knew was that this client had definitely wanted him in this suit. So until he was given other instructions, he was going to remain in the suit.

Just as he had decided to sit, the door down the hall opened. He turned toward Bela, who signaled him to stay. Feeling like a dog – and, really, wasn’t he playing the obedient pet tonight? – he set his drink on the coffee table and smoothed his clothes nervously. He could hear two voices down the hall, a male and a female, though he couldn’t hear what they said. Then he heard the door open and close again, and there was gut-wrenching silence as he waited to see who appeared out of the hallway.

Again, he was surprised.

The man who stepped into view was easily the most gorgeous person he had ever seen, and he had seen a lot of attractive people in his young, debauched life. This man’s sandy brown hair was combed in a classic taper, not a single hair out of place. He was dressed entirely in black – turtleneck, fitted pants, and boots, which were out of place for Arizona in July. However, they made it impossible to miss the fact that he was very much in shape; there didn’t seem to be an inch of fat anywhere.

Sam had to remind himself bad things usually come in pretty packages, and if it seemed too good to be true, it usually was. Not to mention, so far, this whole thing had been surreal, too good to be true. He should be running and not looking back. Hell, he should have done that as soon as he left Man Candy this morning.

Then the man smiled. Wrinkles formed around green eyes the color of the glass bottles his mother used to collect. He reflexively smiled before he could stop himself, offer a less sincere, more guarded smile. _Fuck_.

“You must be Sam,” the whiskey rough voice welcomed, offering a hand.

He shook it, noticing how strong it was, how warm. Despite his clean-shaven pretty-boy looks and the high-priced room, he had the hands of someone who had gotten his hands dirty, and not just in sandboxes but in the real world. Sam was a just a little impressed.

“You can call me Dean.”

“Dean.” He nodded and realized he was still holding the man’s hand. He let go like it was on fire.

Dean – if, like Bela, that really was his name – seemed amused. “Bela informs me dinner is on its way. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Sam nodded nervously. He wasn’t sure he could eat the way his stomach was twisting in knots. He really just wanted to get to the part where he was told what to do so he could do it and get it over with.

Dean watched him as he headed over to the bar to collect the whiskey sour that had been left for him. “You look nervous, Sam. Take a load off. Relax.” He waved at the sofa.

Sam chewed on his bottom lip as he began to sit. “Are you- Um…Isn’t there…” He sat and closed his mouth watching Dean.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Am I what?” He took a sip of his drink.

Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten before opening them again. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so nervous. It’s just…this is…unusual. This whole situation…I’m not an escort. I work at the club.”

Dean nodded, a look of understanding on his face. “Oh. You mean, Bela didn’t explain?”

Sam gave him a puzzled look.

He quickly moved to sit on the coffee table in front of Sam. “Look, Sam, you’re not here for—um – that.” He made some indecipherable hand gestures, and when he saw that only made Sam look more confused. “I mean, I wanted to meet you, yeah, and I asked Bela to set this up, but this isn’t about – you’re not here to have sex with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

They were interrupted by room service bringing dinner.

 

***

 

Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up even as he felt the blood drain from his face, and his stomach drop three or four floors below them.

Dean smoothed the cloth napkin in his lap and studied him. “Is something wrong? Is your dinner not acceptable? I can call room service and have them come back.”

Sam shook his head slowly. “N-no. It’s…fine.” Łazanki. His favorite. He hadn’t had it in years, not since his mother died. She used to make it on Sundays after church. No. She made it for that other boy, the one he used to be, not the one he was now. He swallowed. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

His brain was screaming he should get out of there. Run far, far away. Now. Except he couldn’t, couldn’t move. None of it made any sense.

Dean nodded and lifted his fork and knife. “I’m sure it is. Bela’s instincts are usually on the dot.” When Sam still hadn’t moved to take a bite of the Polish comfort food, he asked, “Would you like something a little stronger than that tonic water? It might help relax you.”

Sam blinked at him and then forced himself to visibly relax. He shook his head and allowed a slow, grateful smile to slip into place. “No, thank you. This is fine. Really.” He picked up his own silverware and began to eat.

“Okay,” Dean replied, dragging the word out longer than necessary.

They ate quietly for a few minutes before Sam finally had to ask. “If you didn’t bring me here for sex, why am I here?”

Dean smiled looking pleased. He gestured at the dinner table. “Dinner. Conversation. Isn’t that enough?”

Sam gave him a skeptical look. “People don’t dish out the kind of money you are for dinner and conversation with someone like me. I’m a stripper in an underground sex club.”

Dean sighed. “Don’t worry about the money, Sam. I asked Bela to set up a meet and greet. Part of that involved guaranteeing you had the evening free. If you want to leave right now—“ Dean shrugged. “You can. You’d still have the rest of the night off with pay. No hard feelings, no strings attached.”

“I. I don’t understand.”

“I know. But if you choose to stay, you will, and I can guarantee it won’t be anything you imagined.”

Sam frowned. “I think I’d like that ‘something harder’ now.”

Dean smiled.

***

Resettled at the table with a bottle of Johnny Walker and a new glass, Sam had shed his jacket, loosened his tie and popped open the first few buttons of his pressed shirt. Dinner was going much more smoothly, though he still wasn’t sure what the big mystery was. Instead they’d discussed trivial things like sports, some politics, New York Bestsellers, and other typical dinner topics.

As dinner wound down, that’s when Sam felt those startling green eyes super focused on him. Resting his elbows on the table, Dean laced his fingers together and studied Sam from across the small table. “For a high school dropout, you are extremely intelligent, very well-read, Sam.”

Sam ducked his head, blushing.

“No, I mean it. I’ve met Ivy League grads who couldn’t carry on as diverse a conversation as we’ve had. You are quite the enigma. Definitely everything Bela told me about you is true.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Dean sighed. “Bela isn’t my assistant, Sam. She’s more of a-“ He searched for the right word. “A Finder – of things, or places or people. Given the right set of criteria, Bela can find a particular needle in a warehouse of stacks of needles buried in the desert during a sandstorm.”

“I don’t un-“

“Usually, I ask her to find missing art, think things that went missing during WWII, and once high speed internet in the Amazon, but in this case, I gave her a specific set of criteria – a set of skills and capabilities and she presented me with you.”

“You were looking for a well-read stripper?”

“No, Sam. I’m looking for a chameleon, a changeling.” He reached under the table and brought out a manila folder.

Those alarms in Sam’s head now sounded like fog horns, but he was in too deep now. His eyes flickered from the folder to the man. The contents of that folder could be the end of him. Finally.

Dean watched Sam’s face as he ran his fingers along the edges of the folder. “You weren’t easy to trace, you know. Considering your lack of resources, what you’ve pulled off over the last eight years – six completely different identities in six different states, not including your original…” He opened the folder to reveal a very bare outline of the seven identities of Jared Padalecki – wanted in the attempted murder of his step-father eight years ago. “My team is really impressed.”

Sam – Jared’s fingers flexed around the glass before he tipped it up and he swallowed what was left in one go. His whole body felt on edge, a-tingle with fear and ready to flee, and yet there was relief too. Relief that the running was over.

“This whole thing is some sort of elaborate trap? Like a sting?” That seemed unnecessary. All things considering.

Dean shook his head. “No, man. You’re not getting it. I’m not the law. Well, I’m not that kind of law.”

Jared looked confused.

“I’m not here to arrest you. I want to hire you.”

“Hire me?”

“Yeah, look. I have a team made up of some very unique and diverse individuals. We…aren’t exactly what you’d call strictly law-abiding, but we exist to help those that are.”

“You’re mercenaries.”

Dean shrugged. “On occasion, but not every day. Some days we’re art thieves, or bodyguards, or ransom negotiators. Jared, the point is I want you to come work for me; make use of that wonderful intelligence you’re wasting here and put that incredible ability you have of becoming whoever whenever to help people.”

Jared shrank back in his chair. Could the evening get any more surreal? “I don’t know.”

“Take some time to think about it.”

 

***

Jared couldn’t recall returning to the boarding house when he woke the next morning or having had enough to drink to cause the massive hangover that left him hugging the porcelain altar. In fact, his tolerance was pretty high so he’d have had to drink half the bar.

The pay-as-you-go cell phone Amanda provided for him, so he could be at her beck and call, was ringing when he crawled back to his room. He fumbled with the keys until he got the right one. “Smmg.”

“I’ll take that as a good sign that you partied hard with the new client last night?” Amanda’s too-loud voice echoed.

He dropped the phone and picked it up again as he collapsed on the bed. “Can we talk later? I feel like shit.”

She laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Just so you know. Your bonus came in. You must have been a very good boy, Sammy. Why don’t you come by the club early and remind me how good a boy you can be?” She hung up.

He dropped the phone on the rickety bedside table and noticed a small business card. He picked it up. It was plain white except for a phone number and one word – REDEMPTION.

He thought back over the last nine years – the year after his mother died, the last eight years hiding, running, barely living. Dean was offering him something more, a chance to be a part of something, a chance to help other people, a chance to maybe form relationships, connections, a chance to use his mind rather than his body.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number.

 

***

 

Jensen was wearing a short-sleeved red t-shirt this morning, and the jagged slash and fourteen stitches down his left bicep could be easily seen from where Lauren studied him over her cup of coffee at the breakfast table. “Don’t you think you should stop fiddling with those maps and eat something?” her posh British accent did nothing to hide the mild scolding tone.

With one pencil stuck behind an ear and a highlighter balanced between his teeth, Jensen looked up from where he had satellite photos and other maps spread across the coffee table and floor. He garbled something she translated to ‘not hungry.”

Fortunately the pre-paid cell phone sitting on the bar began to trill distracting both of them. It was the call they were waiting for, and it couldn’t have come soon enough for Lauren. Scottsdale was right up there with Poughkeepsie in her mind.

Jensen capped the highlighter as he quickly moved to the phone. “Jared?...Have you thought about it?” He glanced over at Lauren and gave her a mock glare.

She knew she was wearing that smug smile of hers. Her instincts were never wrong. And that Jared kid was going to wreak havoc on Jensen’s workplace involvement policy. She smirked.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If folks like this, it could turn into a series. Let me know what you'd like to see.
> 
> ***
> 
>  **update:** (5/22/14) I am succumbing to peer pressure. Even _my mom_ said she wanted more story and she liked "that Jared fellow" but she wanted to know more about the others. ;)


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